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Recovery Ranch in Nunnelly, TN
Nunnelly, TN | See other Tennessee rehab reviews
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Why did you choose this facility?
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Endorsement by Dr. Phil on their website, the
facility had horses. A very smooth intake
recruiter convinced me that I would be well
taken care of and I trusted her. |
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Tell us about the experience - was it positive or negative?
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* NEGATIVE-NEGATIVE-NEGATIVE-NEGATIVE-NEGATIVE *
Before I could be admitted, I had to have a
phone intake interview with Melissa, one of the
centers' recruiters. We took a ten-minute break
after an hour on the phone. Then we continued
for another hour. She said the interview was the
longest she'd ever taken.
They generally lasted
thirty minutes. But she reassured me that the
Ranch would never admit a patient unless they
could fix him.
They didn't just charge 16-
18 grand a month without assurance from their team of specialists.
I took a flight to The Recovery Ranch, on
September 2, 2008. I stayed two months and left there more traumatized than when I went in.
I've had two Nashville attorneys respond
positively to filing a lawsuit. But I was too
shattered and didn't get the paper work in on
time, due to the statute of limitations.
Upon my arrival, I was subjected to an intake
interview with the facility's psychiatrist, Dr.
Merritt. What a piece of shit of a human being.
She had to take a break during the interview, so
she could steady herself.
I couldn't believe it. I'd been to lots of
treatment programs and had seen many
professionals. Her reaction worried me. I
should've known right then, I was in the wrong
place.
She decided to put me a bunch of drugs for
schizophrenics, which practically put me into a
coma. I had come there to be treated for Complex-
PTSD from sexual abuse, ADHD, Anxiety and Panic
Attack disorder (I don't t know the acronym for
that), Alcoholism and Drug addiction,
Generational Clinical Suicidal Depression (three
in three generations, on my mother's side) and
other acronyms that I can't remember now.
But I knew FOR SURE, none them stood for
schizophrenia. That was the rumor though, so I
was called Sybil quite often and not just behind
my back.
Bobby Chapman was my assigned as my primary
counselor. That meant I would be attending
sessions with him, one on one and the group
therapy sessions he led several times a week. It
was a small group, with the worst patients,
because Bobby was "the Best."
The first ten days I was there, Bobby was in
Tucson, Arizona for advanced trauma training. I
figured it was worth the trade. He was not only
the best, but he was getting even better! Boy,
did I feel lucky.
But it led to problems. During that first week
and a half, I got into a lot of trouble. I broke
almost every rule they had, which wasn't hard to
do, since I didn't know what the rules were
until I broke one.
I was pretty sure sneaking my cell phone in with
me was a big no-no, but too bad about that. I'd
been trapped in facilities before with no way to
get out, and I wasn't going through that again.
I also kept my wallet with my driver's license
and a hundred dollars in it, just in case I had
to skedaddle and take a bus home.
My room was upstairs, the coolest room in the
house, according to Doreen, one of my new
roommates. The other was Lori, a tall, thin,
depressed individual. Pretty much the opposite
of Doreen, who reminded me of a female Cartman
from South Park. Her eyes bugged out of her fat
face.
She was rich, rich, rich. She came from 'old' money, a true blue-blood. I wondered why she
wasn't in the ED House, but she was supposedly
addicted to morphine suppositories, gross.
Doreen and Michelle were the Prima Donnas of the
house. Whatever they said, everyone agreed. What
they liked, everyone liked. And what they hated...
well...there was no turning back.
Our bedroom was the only one that had a fire
escape door which opened to a set of black steel
grated emergency stairs. Doreen liked to smoke
out on the landing. She showed me how to keep
the door open so it wouldn't lock when it shut.
"Just put your house slipper in right here," she
said, pointing to bottom of the door.
Umm, I didn't have 'house slippers.' I had
socks. But I didn't tell her that. I got the
point, "Don't lock yourself out, Susan or else
you'll be going down the stairs and trying to
sneak back into the house."
Even though I was suspicious of her, and
everyone else, I thought that since she had
shared this taboo information with me, I could
maybe trust her...a little.
At night, I went into our bathroom and called
Julie. It made me feel safe. It was the only
time I felt safe. On the third night, I walked
out of the bathroom as I was turning my phone
off.
"Well, what do we have here?" It was Doreen.
I felt like peeing my pants, but I'd already
done that while I talked to Julie.
"It's cool, I'm not going to tell anyone, let me
see it." I handed her my phone. I felt like I
was handing her my life.
"How'd you get this in here? She held it between
her thumb and forefinger, like it was a turd. It
was kind of used, dirty and beat up.
"Uuh well, there's no telling what you can stick
up your ass if you really want to." I watched my
phone drop onto the soft plush carpet.
"Heh, heh, just kidding! I put it in my pocket.
They didn't frisk me when I came in." She wasn't
amused.
That was the true beginning of my nightmare at
the Recovery Ranch.
When Bobby came back, I first met him in group
therapy. He frowned as he read my chart. As he
studied my chart, I studied him. He was a big
guy, well over six feet tall. He didn't like
shoes; obviously, he kicked his loafers off
before he sat down Indian-style.
He had thick, brown hair, cut in the same style
he'd probably had since the seventies. It was
parted down the middle and dropped just past his
ears and flipped outwards, like the Flying Nun.
I was betting he was a hippie once. He couldn’t
have been much older than me, maybe a couple of
years or so.
He seemed like a nice guy, but I was a little
uncomfortable with his enthusiasm. I sat in a circle with three other women and a psychology student who was completing his internship. His name was John.
Amy, from Montana, was trying to stay out of prison for her fifth DUI, and Cindy, from New Jersey, was beaming with chicklet teeth. She was leaving in two days, even though the staff thought she would benefit from spending another fifteen
grand for a second month at the Ranch. Her glee
was ominous.
And then there was Michelle, a true southern
belle from "The best state in the nation,
Tennessee."
Michelle was a debutante and her dad was a
mobster. She required special attention from
Bobby all the time. After every group, she
pulled him aside and talked seriously to him for
at least five minutes. She was a bitch. She
hated me since I first arrived. She was pissed
that I was more fucked up than her.
As we sat in the circle, I started shaking. I
couldn't stop. John noticed this and gave me a
look of concern, which I appreciated.
Bobby finally looked up from my chart. "So,
Susan, nice to meet you." He looked toward his
left and said "This is John, he's a grad
student, but he's really a good listener."
Hmm...what did that mean? I liked John more than
anyone and I had just met him. His face conveyed
an understanding that I hadn't felt since I
arrived almost two weeks ago.
"And I'm sure you've already been introduced to
Amy, Cindy and Michelle. It appears you are
settling in, somewhat."
He had to know that I wasn't doing settling in
very well. After Doreen ratted on me and told
Joan, the Resident Assistant/ House Mother,
where I hid my phone, things had gotten ugly.
The next day, out at the gazebo, where smoking
was allowed, I went off on her. I guess I gave
her "the look," a hereditary condition that
scared the hell out of people.
She removed her blankets from her bed and slept
downstairs on the couch for the next week,
before she was discharged. Voices whispered
constantly. Everywhere I went, people got up and
disappeared.
"Shit, I'm five foot tall, I weigh a hundred
pounds, how dangerous could I be?"
"Tell me, do you hear voices?" It was Bobby.
"Huh? What did you say?" I was swimming in
confusion.
"I was reading here in your chart that you
mumble to yourself. And the medications you're
on makes me wonder...do you hear voices?"
I thought it was a stupid first question, but he
was serious and became excited by my response.
"Well...yeah, sure." The look on my face
said "What, are you crazy?"
But it didn't dampen his eagerness.
"Reaalllly? What voices do you hear?" He waited
with the wide eyes of a teenager who had just
seen a ghost...and liked it.
I replied, "Well, right now, YOURS."
"Duh, what a dumbshit," I said to myself. Then I
realized that was not what he meant.
"Oh no, no, no, no! I mean, do you hear voices
in your head?"
By this time I was on guard, but I answered
honestly. "Well...yeah...yeah, I do."
"Really?" He was giddy. He rapid-fired
questions: "Do the voices talk to you? Do you
have more than one? What are their names? What
do they say? Do they talk at the same time?"
Now, I was annoyed. He was almost panting He was
beside himself with anticipation. His zeal was starting to grate on me. But again, I told him the truth.
"Yes they talk to me, Bobby; I have a whole
committee in my head. And no, they don't have
names. They are all ME, talking to myself. And
yes, I interrupt myself all the time, because my
committee always has so many different
opinions..."
He dropped his mouth open and tilted his head,
as his eyes nearly crossed. His puzzled
expression said, "Huh?"
His bewilderment almost made me feel sorry for
him.
But Michelle wasn't puzzled or bewildered and
definitely not shy.
She haughtily asked "So, Susan how many voices
are on your 'committee'?"
I hadn't ever thought about that, so I
replied, "Umm, I'm not sure, but there's a lot,
I know that!"
She looked like I had just spit on her. "Humph!" she sneered. "It sounds to me like you may need
a 'higher' level of care."
Bobby dropped his mouth open, but nothing came
out. "This can not be good," I thought. What the
hell is "A Higher Level of Care?"
I found out later that it was a facility that
was on lock down and people wore hospital gowns
all night and all day. "Sheeeit, been there,
done that...thirty years ago, about twenty seven
times."
Michelle broke the group "confidence" and told
everyone that I had multiple personalities. Along with Doreen's insistence that I was going
to kill her in her sleep, it wasn't long before
everyone believed I was a multi-personalitied,
probable serial killer.
My incessant shaking just verified how unstable,
how unpredictable I was. I instantly had the
plague, as well.
I was a one-eyed monster for the next eight
weeks. Out of twenty-five women, only one was
nice to me. She was Robert Downy Jr.'s older
sister, Alison. I knew if I ever wanted to, I
could ask her to verify what happened to me at
the Ranch.
One evening, I missed dinner because no one
shared the dinner hour information with me. And
this information changed everyday. When I walked
into the kitchen, there was no food left. I
looked at the ten other women sitting at the
dinner table with food overflowing their plates.
Everyone snickered when Michelle
commented, "Hey, first come, first served."
Since I had already been dubbed insane (which I
obviously was not, I just had problems), I bit
my tongue until I could reply in a very calm
manner,
"If any of you, or anyone else came to my house,
I would never, ever allow something like this
happen to them. I would share some of what I had
on my plate."
I heard the whispering gossip as I headed
upstairs to my room. "She's Nuts!" snicker,
snicker, snicker. It wasn't long before the word
spread to the ED house and the men's house.
Everywhere I went I was fish-eyed and avoided.
"God, these are very rich people! Judges! B-
Movie Stars! Grandkids of Johnny Cash! Semi-
famous writers and artists with issues!
Alcoholic Race Car drivers! Supposedly sensitive
musicians with major heroin habits! How can
they be so cruel? "
Then I answered my questions, "That's it! I AM
different! I have a soul!"
I would have left after a week but Julie paid a
lot of money for my "recovery" there. She was
becoming deeply in debt. She had already charged
almost thirty thousand dollars for two months in
this supposed trauma program that turned into a
complete hell hole. When I left, I was more
traumatized than when I went in. I didn't feel
better, I felt worse.
I came back home in late October. The first
thing I did was buy the biggest bottle of
Canadian Club available and went back to a
peaceful, loving place...on my couch...for three
days.
Before I left Ranch, the aftercare specialist
Amy, scheduled an appointment with a local
psychologist in Melbourne, who specialized in
trauma treatment. Thank God for that, right? I
was given a phone number to Dr Louise Peterson,
PsyD.
I cancelled the first appointment. But she was
the only resource I was given. |
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Do you feel the program was successful?
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I CAN NOT DESCRIBE THIS HARM THIS FACILITY DID
TO ME. I AM DEVASTATED THAT A TRAUMA TREATMENT
CENTER COULD ACTUALLY ADD TO THE CONDITION. |
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What advice would you give somebody considering going to this facility?
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DON'T BE FOOLED BY THEIR WEBSITE!!!!!!!!!!!!
THEY ARE NOT PROFESSIONALS, THEY ARE NOT AWARE
AND THEY ADMINISTER FAKE TREATMENT.
HORRIBLE EXPERIENCE, HOPE THIS HELPS
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